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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526439">The Portrait</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlixInSpace/pseuds/ProlixInSpace'>ProlixInSpace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Viren Week 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Birthdays, F/M, Family, Magefam positive, VirenWeek2020, portrait painting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:00:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlixInSpace/pseuds/ProlixInSpace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Claudia is a year old, a major milestone for babies in Katolis. Customarily, for those who can afford such a thing, it is a day when a family portrait is painted. Of course, the best laid plans of parents of babies and toddlers often go awry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Viren/Viren's Ex-Wife (The Dragon Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Viren Week 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693006</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Portrait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, I’m deeply stressed and while I’ve gotten some of Chapter 10 of The Time That Is Given Us started and most of the details of the season adjusted and planned, I am feeling a bit creatively stressed by current events. To give my poor addled brain a little encouragement, I’ve decided to use #VirenWeek2020 to relax and write some little ficlets set in the same universe as The Time That Is Given Us, on some of the themes of the week.</p>
<p>For the first one, the “Family” prompt, I wanted to do the written version of what I’m seeing a lot of art of -- that is, a family portrait.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>(Day 1: "Family")</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>The Portrait</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A year and a half ago, when they celebrated <em> Soren </em>turning one, there were no other children they had to look after. It was just him, a year old and the focus of the entire day to begin with. He was a docile enough baby (what happened since then is anyone’s guess) and for winter, the weather was beautiful. Viren recalls that the day was leisurely and quiet. In the customary first-birthday portrait, Soren is fast asleep.</p>
<p>Claudia’s first birthday, however, begins with facing down a chilly, gray dawn on very little rest. </p>
<p>“Well?” Sigrin hovers in the doorway, covered with a wool blanket the color of hickory. The way it slopes over her exhausted shoulders makes her look like a walking hillock. </p>
<p>Somewhere beneath the folds of fabric, Viren can just make out the shape of the baby, swaddled and sling-bound.  </p>
<p>“He’s fine,” Viren says. </p>
<p>“He’s not sick?” </p>
<p>“Not <em> anymore.” </em>As far as Viren’s concerned, the bucket full of dirty rags should speak to how the night went. He scoffs. “Though he stubbornly remained ill for as long as he could, it seems.”</p>
<p>That gets a dry hiss of a snicker out of Sigrin. </p>
<p>“As soon as the coin finally came up, he went right to sleep. Been fine ever since.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t tell me.” She frowns. </p>
<p>“Did you really want me to wake you?” In the quiet room, Viren can hear his knees pop as he gets to his feet for the first time in hours. That never used to happen. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry--”</p>
<p>“I don’t blame you.”</p>
<p>“No, I can do that well enough for both of us” Sigrin whispers, peering into the misty darkness of the room. “I shouldn’t have left it out.”</p>
<p>“He’s an explorer.” Viren presses a kiss to her forehead. “Looks like your father, acts like your father.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know that my father ever tried to <em> eat </em>ancient enchanted relics.”</p>
<p>Viren smirks. “You’re... <em> certain </em>about that?”</p>
<p>“Point taken,” she agrees, baring her teeth in a smile that would be a laugh if she only had the energy. </p>
<p>By the time the portraitist arrives, the little troublemaker is the picture of health, and has slept more than anyone else in the room. The curtains on the office windows are tied tightly back, and the panes hang open, the stained glass itself not letting in enough light to work by on such a dreary day.</p>
<p>“Is everyone prepared?” Asks the portraitist. </p>
<p>“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Sigrin says through a yawn. She’s re-wrapped Claudia in the traditional technicolor swaddle of a year-old baby, and she herself is dressed in the earthy greens of her home. It isn’t her preference, but rather the recommendation of a palace etiquette specialist who described her typical fashion sense as <em> excessively funereal.  </em></p>
<p>To Viren’s eyes, she could already <em> be </em>a painting, or perhaps a statue, exhausted or not. On anyone else, the muted garb of Del Bar would look provincial at best, but even unwashed and unrested, she somehow turns it into the very picture of nobility, simply in the way she carries herself. That, and her cheekbones, perhaps.</p>
<p>“You’ll fix my hair in the painting, right?” She asks, using her free hand to smooth down the flyaway strands escaping her braids. The idea was originally to have Viren help her with them this morning, to make something a little more complex, and perhaps plait a rope of gold into them for the occasion, but plans and reality tend to be two different things, with two young children in the equation.</p>
<p>Viren pulls Soren down from scaling the bookshelves for the third time (also not in the plan) and deposits him on the floor. He turns his attention to the desk, clearing away a pen  and a parchment from the area next to where they’ll stand, to avoid anything getting purloined by impatient little fingers.</p>
<p>“Of course, Lady Sigrin,” says the portraitist, (though a part of Viren almost wishes he could say no, she’s lovely, paint her just as she is.) All of the sudden, upon glancing back, the artist’s voice becomes a sharp, high scold: “Young master Soren! You <em> must not </em> touch that!”</p>
<p>Sigrin and Viren share a single glance in which an entire conversation passes. By the time they look back toward the back of the easel, they’ve already agreed to allow it on the grounds that perhaps it will work better, coming from a slightly intimidating stranger. </p>
<p>“Your parents will have you over their knee, you know!”</p>
<p>Soren gives a shamed, “Yessir,” and allows himself to be herded over to where his mother has struck her pose.</p>
<p>Viren rests one hand on the dip of her waist and the other on Soren’s right shoulder. This is as much a gesture of affection as it is a reminder to stand still on the box he’s been given. </p>
<p>Somehow, without moving that shoulder at all, Soren manages to get a forgotten inkwell off the edge of the desk and into his hands. There isn’t even time for the portraitist to call out before Soren’s palms and shirt-front are covered in black ink. </p>
<p>“Soren!” Sigrin shouts just as he’s reaching for Viren’s dress jacket, some instinct telling her to look at that precise moment. Summoning all her patience, she scoops up the inkwell in a black handkerchief drawn from her bodice, passes it summarily to Viren, and crouches down. </p>
<p>The motion wakes Claudia, who begins to make unhappy burbling noises.</p>
<p>“Soren,” she says, more patient this time, wiping his hands with a second handkerchief, leading Viren to wonder just how many she’s got in there.</p>
<p>“Yes, Mommy--” he says, in the distinct tone of a two-and-a-half-year-old-boy who knows exactly what he did. </p>
<p>“If you can stand still for the portrait, I’ll give you a chocolate after.” Sigrin’s choosing the carrot rather than the stick, and Viren lacks the energy to argue. “Does that sound good?”</p>
<p>He nods deliberately, white-blonde hair flapping around his face. They all rearrange themselves. Blessedly, the baby settles rather than growing any more impatient. </p>
<p>What gets Soren’s attention, no one sees, but it doesn’t take a lot to distract a toddler. It could be anything from a bird outside to a pile of dust in the corner that sends him careening off the little ledge. He makes an admirable effort to catch himself, but it is in vain. Instead, he pinwheels his way to the floor, screeching like an angry parrot all the way, prompting Claudia to wake up and join the wailing party for real this time. Viren’s the one out of formation this time, so that Sigrin can try to soothe her.</p>
<p>“Why don’t we… take a short break?” The portraitist says, his face a mask of politeness over a core of terse impatience.</p>
<p>“No, I… I have an idea,” Viren says. “Soren--”</p>
<p>“I’b sorry!” Soren preempts, shouting over Claudia’s crying, holding a slightly bloodied nose behind his cupped hands. </p>
<p>“No, no, I… How would you like a <em> very </em> important job?” </p>
<p>His face is an open book, and right now it reads, <em> what do you mean? </em></p>
<p>Viren explains, word by word, emphasizing the gravity of the situation. “I want <em> you </em> to be the one to hold your sister for the portrait. It would be a <em> huge </em> help. Can you help us?”</p>
<p>All of the sudden, the boy’s eyes <em> sparkle. </em>“I can do it!”</p>
<p>“On the chair, of course,” Viren explains, simultaneously giving instructions and also reassuring his wife that he’s not suggesting a toddler hold a baby over the ground for the length of a portrait. </p>
<p>Sigrin’s reading chair is dragged from the fireplace, and Soren is situated upon it with Claudia in his lap, where she quiets almost immediately. </p>
<p>Now, Soren wears the kind of frown usually reserved for seeing how long he can stand on one foot, or trying to hold a spoon in his fingers instead of his fist. <em> I won’t let you down, </em> it seems to say. At this point, if he stays still, it hardly matters <em> what </em>expression he has. </p>
<p>Sigrin shakes out her arms and the two of them take a position behind the chair, and it’s so much easier to maintain there’s a collective sense of wonder that they didn’t <em> start </em>this way. </p>
<p>The final portrait takes considerable artistic license: No ink spilled, no tears, no bloody nose, no one harried, or sleepy-eyed, or wild-haired. Little painted-Soren holds his glowing baby sister with the righteous focus of a paladin on a crusade. Viren’s gaze is fixed resolutely forward, while Sigrin looks shyly down, the picture of demure, beatific motherhood. It is as idyllic-looking as anyone could ask for.</p>
<p>Viren and Sigrin nod appreciatively at the final product, but as soon as the painter is out of earshot, they both laugh until they can’t breathe.</p>
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